


laying down

by sakon



Category: Ayatsuri Sakon | Puppet Master Sakon
Genre: Crimes & Criminals, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-24
Updated: 2020-08-24
Packaged: 2021-03-06 17:42:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 500
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26082874
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sakon/pseuds/sakon
Summary: "Okay, so it is my fault. Still not the point. The point is that we don't need to argue; we need to haul ass or fix this."We're both really screwed if we don't."





	laying down

**Author's Note:**

> Prompt: "C'mon, put the guns down."
> 
> Gang! AU drabble + Zenkichi & Shiho

"Put down the gun, we don't need to argue."

"We don't need to?" Shiho cocked the pistol, lifting it against his chest, "Easy for you to say. After all, it's your fault we're even in this mess!"

Zenkichi groaned. She was right, even with the glint of the metal seeming closer and closer, the barrel digging in between his ribs. It wasn't anywhere fatal, and she knew it; Shiho balanced a gun between her pinkie more than the books of the shop that fronted for their operation. His chest didn't string up, eyes only growing dim, brows furrowed. His fingers twitched against his own, but he restrained himself from whipping it from his belt. 

It would only cause more problems and drama, and that wasn't what they needed. 

"Alright, maybe it's my fault, but ---"

"Maybe?" She yowled, frowning. Her hand fisted his collar, yanking hard enough to split the shirt apart. He could spot the scars lacing her delicate frame --- the one that gained lean muscle and callouses -- and the smudge of ink and dirt rolling up her arm, staining her sleeve. Her teeth grit audibly, and he put a hand up in surrender, still keeping his thumb in his pocket. Out of formality more than anything, not fear running through his veins. 

Zenkichi remembered a time when he was afraid, when the barrel end of a gun was the least familiar place. Not now. It was rather amusing how young he was, how fresh he was.

"Okay, so it is _my_ fault. Still not the point. The point is that we don't need to argue; we need to haul ass or fix this."

"We're both really screwed if we don't."

Her brow twitched, then she let go, watching his back spring back up. Her gun clicked as she put it on safety, then tucked it into her jeans, throwing her shirt over the silver piece.

"Fine, we don't need to. Now what?"

She slapped a hand against the gun, a private message to herself. It felt cold against her skin, intricate design pushing against her palms. It was gorgeous and highly illegal; she didn't need to be showing it off needlessly unless she had a damn good reason. Circling back around, one eye on the larger stretching shadow --- he went to get his jacket --- and the other focused on the filth of the room, she threw a bomber jacket on after snatching it from a tipped chair. 

"I dunno, what do you think?" 

Gripping to the point her knuckles looked white, she lifted the chair, sitting with her bust against the back and straddling the angle of the wood. Her fingers thrummed loud, annoying sounds that made him glare. He sat down across from her, leaning back on the two hind legs of it. It was fragile, and she hoped it broke if he dipped back far enough. 

"I don't know -- maybe argue against it --- or something like that? Jesus, you're the one that got us in this mess!"


End file.
